


Day 8: Paint Transfers (verb)

by fascinationex



Series: MEGASTAR-MAS 2020 [7]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dress Up, Evil Marriage, Far Future, M/M, Throne Sex, megastarmas 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fascinationex/pseuds/fascinationex
Summary: "This is some... puerile fantasy of yours," Megatron grunted. He nevertheless remained still for Starscream’s hands. If he moved, Starscream would declare the polish ruined and demand they start again.
Relationships: Megatron/Starscream (Transformers)
Series: MEGASTAR-MAS 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072040
Comments: 12
Kudos: 60





	Day 8: Paint Transfers (verb)

**Author's Note:**

> Citing [Virtualnemesis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virtualnemesis/) as the inspo for this one.

"This is some... puerile fantasy of yours," Megatron grunted. He nevertheless remained still for Starscream’s hands. If he moved, Starscream would declare the polish ruined and demand they start again. 

And he _would_ make them start again. Megatron had agreed to this nonsense. He would see it through. As always. 

"No," said Starscream. He didn't bother to elaborate. They'd had it out over and over: the purpose of these silly, frivolous little luxuries. 

Starscream liked this sort of thing. And well he might. Despite Megatron's general disinterest in his vanities and petty indulgences, Starscream did cut a figure of a certain _drama_. In these long years after the war, he wore his delicate gold highlights like they weren’t even ridiculous. 

Megatron, on the other hand, just looked like… exactly what he was. And he was not ashamed of what he was. No mechanism still functioned who would even try to make him so. He had ensured this.

…But it remained true that the mirror finish Starscream was currently intent upon would undoubtedly look like gilding on a turbofox. 

"Mmm, yes," said Starscream, more to himself than to Megatron. Then, "See?" 

What Megatron saw in the mirror Starscream had set up for just this purpose—right in front of his throne, as though he would allow Starscream to _display him_ like this, before all his subjects—was that he was extremely shiny. 

Starscream attached the magnetic clip of the cape, which spilled around them both in a wash of steelsilk, costly and beautiful and almost useless. It was heavy but made poor armour. Now, as he moved, it rustled with a pretty chime, and the metal of it pressed in against his field, catching its edges. It felt... soft and textured, on those sensitive sensors. 

Megatron did not know what he thought he looked like, exactly. He felt strange and uncomfortable, and tense through his fuel pump and tanks. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. 

"Almost done," Starscream promised. He ran one finger over Megatron's lower lip, a thick smear of paint highlight—not in a common colour, though. It was bright energon pink. Mouth the colour of food, mouth the colour of fuel on the ground. It made him think of death and hunger. 

His own fuel was rushing fast. His mouth felt tacky. 

The steelsilk rustled softly, chiming on his armour, sliding silkily across the sensors of his EM field in a confusing buzz. 

His optics flickered. 

"There," said Starscream, stepping back. "Well?" 

There was a long pause. "It's fine," said Megatron. 

He wasn't sure if it was fine. 

"You're beautiful," Starscream said—a little too confidently, Megatron felt. 

Starscream's work was good, which might have been what he was actually complimenting; Megatron had never been beautiful in his life. He scoffed softly through his vents. "Hardly that." 

The intensely shined polish wouldn't last half an hour before losing its sheen. He looked ridiculous, and intellectually, he knew it, but... 

But. 

His tongue ran out without his permission. The bright line of paint on his mouth didn't budge. It tasted like oil. 

Funny, when it was from the fuel lines of a living mech, the slick energon lifted up from his mouth just like food. He'd done that before. In the pits. Smeared someone's fuel on his mouth, licked it off, bared his teeth— 

In the mirror, oh, he _gleamed_. 

The dissonance between what ran inside his processor and what his optics told him was… unsettling. His fans spun gently to life but his vents fell shut.

He looked—grand, yes, and polished to a shine. But the polish was delicate. The golden chains spilling around his waist were soft and malleable, easily broken. The steelsilk on his shoulders was fragile. One wrong move— 

He shifted uncomfortably. His fuel tank felt tight. 

He looked away, squirming internally. He found that Starscream was smiling at him like he knew a secret that Megatron did not. 

He tugged a chain with one claw hooked through. Megatron moved with it, careful not to let the golden links snap. He was capable of breaking anything, of course—he knew this about himself, and he was sure Starscream did too. He wasn't sure if he could keep something that delicate intact. 

Megatron shifted his gaze—from Starscream to the mirror, and then from the mirror to Starscream. Wheels upon wheels were spinning in his complicated little mind, hidden behind the glow of his optics. 

His lips curved, narrow and inviting. 

"Well then. Take your throne, my Lord," he said. Starscream never quite managed to say ‘my lord’ in its full sincerity. Even years past, begging to be spared Megatron’s temper, he had only imbued it with terror. Now, though—it might have been insincere as ever, but warm.

He put his hand on Megatron's chest plates and pushed. He could not have moved Megatron unless Megatron let him. 

So when Megatron moved his powerful, delicately-adorned body under Starscream’s hands, they both knew it was because Megatron let him. 

He stepped back. He sat down very, very carefully. 

The steelsilk rubbed against his back and legs as he did, crushed into his field and strangely soft between him and the throne. He sank into it, just a little. It moulded to him, caressing. 

The mirror showed him sitting in his throne like some ancient ruler, bedecked in the indulgent luxuries the Primes had later eschewed as gross vanity. The biolights glowed on his armour, each one cleaned to a tiny well-defined pinlight instead of their usual blurry glow. 

He twitched when Starscream sank to his knees between his legs. His long claws scraped ever so gently on the satiny-smooth, mirror bright finish of Megatron’s thighs, leaving no marks but ringing loud and clear in the empty throne room. 

Megatron shivered. Starscream’s claws had never glided so smoothly over his armour before. 

“Keep your optics on the mirror,” Starscream told him, even as his clever claws unsnapped the clasp of his spike panel. 

“What?” said Megatron. There was no reason not to indulge him--he'd done so much indulging already, after all--but the request was a surprise.

Starscream ran the back of one cool metal finger right up his spike, catching the waking sensors indifferently as he encouraged it to pressurise and lubricate. One of Megatron’s legs twitched, startled, cable retracting. He could already feel the hot rush of Starscream’s vents across the head of his spike. 

Megatron’s optics dimmed as his frame rerouted energy to his interfacing system, flooding it with fresh fuel. The mirror showed the reflection of the scene in his armour, mirror bright, distorting the flutter of Starscream’s wings.

“On the mirror,” Starscream repeated, and then he smiled, all narrow and inviting, and he lowered his head and went to work. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked something about this one please let me know in a comment!


End file.
